The Oak By the Shore
by Jehan's Muse
Summary: Vershinin returns from his assignment overseas to find that all has changed...but is it really for the better? Based on Chekhov's play "Three Sisters."


I've always wanted to try a non-humor fic, but non-humor fics are usually either romance, action or angst, none of which I can write. I'm not good at thinking up plot twists for adventure, I can't write a romance because in order to be worth reading it has to be rated PG-13 or above, anything under that would fall under the category of (gag) fluff, and a good angst story demands a meaningful plotline, and you have to be a special kind of writer to do that, and I'm just your typical garden-variety, run-of-the-mill humor writer who does stupid spoofs on whatever she can think of. But I'm sick of humor fics, and I've already spoofed, parodied and filked the stuffing out of all my favorite writing topics. I love Shakespeare...so I do a plotless parody of "Julius Caesar." I like Harry Potter...so I write one of those stupid "How To Tell If You're Obsessed" lists that got taken down anyway. Those, I can spoof and get away with. But another one of my major interests is reading the works of Anton Chekhov, and they can't be parodied. It would just completely defeat the whole purpose of his writing. So I'm going to try my hand at a romance fic, keeping it relatively tame so I can get away with a PG rating, because Chekhov is one of the few things that can never be fluffed (is that, fanfictionally speaking, a verb?) This is based on Chekhov's play "Three Sisters," my all-time favorite (though "The Seagull" and "Uncle Vania" are tied in close second). Anyway, please cut me a bit of slack, because as I previously stated, I was cut out for crappy humor fics and not much else.   
  
Disclaimer: I do not own "Three Sisters," it belongs to Anton Chekhov but since he's dead I don't think he can sue me for using it.  
  
A/N (I know, get on with the story already...) Please forgive the lack of paragraphing, I never learned how, but I'll do the best I can. Oh, and I know that two years pass between Act 3 and Act 4, so technically Vershinin should be forty-nine and Masha would be thirty-two, but I don't want to make them that old and go through all the details, so they're all the ages they were in Act 3, plus five (he's 47, she's 30, Irena is 25, Olga is 33, Chebutykin is 65. I don't know how old Andrey was in the first place, and I don't really care because I plan to kill off his character later anyway. Aren't I evil?)  
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Alexandre lay on the narrow bunk, staring up at the ceiling. He'd been injured in the war, not a serious injury, but serious enough to get him sent back home. His thoughts drifted to his hometown near Moscow, and then to the Prozorov family. It had been five years since he had last seen them...he was nearly fifty now, and Masha would be thirty. How strange, he thought, how strange that I can barely remember how old my two little daughters are now, but I know Masha's age almost to the minute? Just for the record, he tried to think of his family, his wife and children. His eldest daughter, Anastasia Ignatyevna, would be twelve, and Elisabeta Ignatyevna would be nine. Feeling satisfied, he allowed his thoughts to swing back to what he considered his alternate family. The last he had heard of the Prozorov sisters, Irena's fiancee had been killed in a duel. Olga was still teaching and studying, and Masha...Alexandre sighed. Masha had most likely forgotten him, gone on to lead a happy life with her husband. That was the problem...they were both trapped, married, and not to each other. He didn't want to think of his wife right now, the crazy witch. Perhaps Masha had grown to like her husband's lack of brains. After all, he was a kind man, intelligence wasn't always an issue. Alexandre rolled over on the bunk and fell asleep.  
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Alexandre was woken hours later by the ship's captain.   
  
"We're docking, Vershinin, sir."  
  
Alexandre sat up hurriedly, dusting himself off and coughing in a businesslike manner.  
  
"Right. Thank you. I'll get my things."  
  
He gathered his various suitcases and climbed up to the deck of the ship. The port was busy, he'd have a hard time getting through the crowd with all his luggage. He scanned the crowd for Masha, though he knew there wasn't much of a chance that she or any of the Prozorovs would be there to meet him. No, Masha was nowhere in sight...but his wife was, standing there with Stasia and Betka, glaring at her watch and tapping her foot impatiently. No hope of avoiding them, thought Alexandre. Sighing, he made his way over to them.   
  
"You're late," his wife snapped, shoving her wristwatch in his face. Alexandre ignored her, devoting his attention to his daughters, who were hugging him furiously and squealing, "Papa's home! He's come back!" The Vershinins drove home in silence. Alexandre edged away from his wife, staring out the window. Would Masha remember him? Would Irena, or Olga, or Andrey remember him? He could hear Masha's melodic voice echoing in his head, that time five years ago when they were all together in the ballroom of the Prozorovs' mansion. "I can't even remember what Mother looked like, now. I suppose people will lose all memory of us in just the same way...we'll be forgotten..." He sighed. How true that was. He could picture when he got home. He'd be in his drawing-room with Baron Toozenbach, philosophizing like the old days before he left... Alexandre shook his head. Nikolai Lvovich was dead. He'd been killed before they left. He could still hear Irena sobbing in his mind. He put all thoughts out of his head and stared out the window again, listening to his daughters giggling in the backseat. It was too much to hope for, that things could go back to normal...  
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Masha sat in her study, wearing her usual black and reading a book. "A green oak grows by a curving shore, and 'round that oak hangs a golden chain...a golden chain 'round that oak..." She hummed absentmindedly, turning a page. Irena burst into the study.   
  
"Masha! Masha! The Lieutenant-Colonel has come back from Poland!" Irena grabbed her sister's arm.  
  
"The Lieutenant-Colonel?" Masha put her book down. Irena sighed impatiently and tugged on Masha's sleeve.  
  
"Lieutenant-Colonel Vershinin! Alexandre Ignatyevich! Don't you remember?"  
  
Masha didn't move. It couldn't be true. After five years of dreaming about him day and night, having him fill her thoughts every hour of every minute of every day...and speaking of him to no one, for nobody could know what she dreamed about...could he really be back? Her prayers had never been answered before, she didn't know how to react to it when it finally happened. Half of her wanted to jump out of her chair and run to him, and the other half wanted nothing more than to crawl under the bed and hide. She had spent five years trying unsuccessfully to forget him and move on...what if he wasn't there after all? What if he'd forgotten her? What if he'd found someone else? No, she decided, she couldn't see him. After being disappointed for 19 years, she didn't trust fate.   
  
"Go on, Irena darling, I want to finish my book. Maybe I'll see him later." Irena stared in disbelief.  
  
"Masha, you are a silly. I'll leave if I must, but are you sure you're all right?" Masha didn't reply, but whistled as she turned another page of her book. Irena shrugged and left the room. As soon as she had gone, Masha put the book under her chair and rocked back and forth, remembering that day five years ago...  
  
"What a noise the wind's making in the stove! Just before Father died, the wind howled in the chimney just like that..." Masha said, looking around at the darkened ballroom.  
  
"Are you superstitious?" Vershinin glanced quizzically at her.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How strange..." he mused, kissing her hand tenderly. "You really are a wonderful creature, a marvelous creature! Wonderful, marvelous! It's quite dark here, but I can see your eyes shining."  
  
Masha nervously moved to another chair. "There's more light over here."  
  
Vershinin followed her, taking her hand in his and kneeling down. "I love you, I love you, I love you...I love your eyes, I love your movements, I dream about them. A wonderful, marvelous being!"  
  
Masha returned to the present, her head snapping up with a start. Yes, she remembered it vividly. Vershinin had declared his love for her, and she had realized the extent of hers for him...and they had both known it was hopeless, right from the start. Proverbs were wrong, she thought, it did hurt to dream. It hurt like nothing else. She sighed, burying her face in her hands again...then did a double take, noticing the figure in the doorway. "Alexandre!" she cried, before she could stop herself.  
  
"Masha!"  
  
In an instant she had crossed the ballroom, before realizing her faux pas. She looked down, and he cleared his throat embarrassedly.   
  
"Lieutenant-Colonel Vershinin. It's a pleasure to see you again."  
  
"Thank you...Maria Serghyeevna."  
  
He took her hand, rather stiffly, and kissed it in a courteous, gentlemanly manner. Masha turned away.  
  
"What brings you back here, Alexandre Ignatyevich?"  
  
He laughed rather humorlessly. "Nothing, merely a scratch. Still, I'm unfit to fight, so they shipped me back here."  
  
Masha lit a candle. "That's too bad. I'm sure your wife and little girls were happy to see you again."  
  
"The wife could have done without me. My daughters are beside themselves."  
  
"Two out of three isn't bad."  
  
"It depends on what you're counting."  
  
Masha shrugged. "I suppose you're right." There was an awkward moment of silence between the two. "Won't you sit down?"   
  
They took seats in the two decorative armchairs near the fire. Masha belatedly realized that these were the very two chairs they had been sitting in that fateful day five years ago...or had she already known? Vershinin coughed politely.  
  
"How is the rest of the family?" Masha sighed.  
  
"Olga's been made headmistress, against her will. She's working too hard, we're afraid she'll make herself sick. And Irena's been in a sort of stupor ever since the baron was killed in that duel. It's like Father's death all over again..." It dawned on Masha how very negative she must sound, but Vershinin was nodding his head intently, listening to everything.  
  
"And what of your husband, Fiodor Ilyich?" he said.  
  
"Fyedia's fine, still teaching at the high school and writing in his spare time. We're to celebrate our twelfth anniversary next month." Why had she said that? Perhaps to remind him that they were both married, that this was only a polite conversation at an informal reunion. At any rate, he didn't seem to have noticed it.   
  
"And Ivan Romanych is fine, getting on in years at bit, but still getting up every day and reading the newspaper without a clue what it all means..." They laughed. Vershinin was silent for a moment.  
  
"Was it difficult for you, being married off when you were only eighteen?" Masha stared at him. He had such a habit of asking questions you didn't want to answer or think about. And yet, it often served to reveal his brilliant mind...she shook her head. Stop thinking about things like that, she mentally chided herself, you'll only make things worse. It's bad enough that you've been pining for him for the last five years...seven years, really...all the while setting your husband at a distance. She noticed Vershinin staring expectantly at her and pretended to be debating the question.  
  
"Yes, it was difficult...but I loved him when we were married. He seemed terribly clever and kind. Of course, now I realize my misconception...I know he's not very clever, but he loves me. Many girls who are married off early aren't lucky enough to have a kind, loving husband." Vershinin nodded.  
  
"Yes, I remember you telling me this the last time we talked together. How long ago it seems! And everything has changed..." He stared into the fire. "Yes...it seems millenia ago that we all sat together...you, and I, and your sisters, and Nikolai Lvovich, and Soliony..."  
  
"And now, the baron is dead, and Soliony hanged for murder, and the rest of us all sitting here rotting and never getting any younger!" finished Masha bitterly. Vershinin smiled rather oddly.   
  
"Yes, that does sound familiar. You and your fits of temper...you always were raging over something, Maria Serghyeevna."  
  
"Well, apart from that, everything's changed."  
  
"Olga's still teaching," he pointed out. "And Fiodor's still writing and teaching gym to the high-schoolers...and Natalia Ivanovna is still wearing her silly clothing..."   
  
"Yes, but those are all small, ordinary things, things that don't matter! Everything important has changed." Vershinin nodded.   
  
"But could we really expect it not to? Change is inevitable, my dear Masha. Sooner or later, we all must learn that."   
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I've definitely been reading too much Chekhov. Anyway, forgive any mistakes I may have made...I don't know how many years really pass between which acts, but I know that in act 3 Irena is 20 and in act 4 she's 22, so that's where I get my information. Chapter 2 to come soon.  
  
--Sirius Ravenclaw 


End file.
